Consulting Boyfriends
by the.thirteenth.doctors
Summary: John is becoming more and more annoyed about the game Sherlock is playing with Moriarty, when it takes a turn he really should have anticipated... In progress. Collection of Sheriarty oneshots. Sherlock/Moriarty (And no, Martha did not write this one... She hates Sheriarty) -Maia. SHERLOLLY 5 EVA! -Martha (Sorry about her- Maia)
1. Moriarty Was Here

"Sherlock!" John screamed. Sherlock sighed. He had been concentrating. When Sherlock Holmes is concentrating, you do not interrupt. That goes for roommates, too. Especially when they shriek at you. John..."This is really getting ridiculous." Sherlock rolled his eyes. When it became apparent that John was not going to come in and tell him, Sherlock reluctantly rose to his feet and stalked over to the door of his bedroom.

John stood inside, hands on his hips, pouting like some kind of pantomime dame. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth disobediently tugging into a tiny smile at that image. John glared. "This isn't funny." Sherlock turned his attention to the room. Written in red spray paint on the bed were three words: MORIARTY WAS HERE. The consulting detective's unwelcome smile broadened at the sight. Dear Jim. Dear, dear Jim...

John was fuming. "It's not just there! Look!" AND HERE, AND HERE, AND HERE, read the floor the back of the doors and one of the walls. Sherlock almost giggled. He tried to keep his face blank, but he couldn't resist, and he accidentally released a tiny chuckle, which he quickly disguised as a cough. John gave him a sharp look. "This 'game' of yours is getting out of hand!" He complained. Sherlock turned away from John to apparently gaze out of the window.

He grinned as his phone vibrated somewhere behind him. John huffed, but when Sherlock gestured, he obediently picked up the mobile and read out: "Hiiiiiiii, did you like my decorations, dear? JM." In disgust, John threw the phone down on the bed.

Sensing a change, Sherlock turned to look at his blogger roommate. John was still scowling. "Look." He stomped out of the room and opened the door to his bedroom. MORIARTY AND SHERLOCK WERE HERE. HAHA, WATSON. Sherlock's face was a picture of shock and barely concealed embarrassed laughter.

John sighed. "I don't care what you do with your...er... consulting boyfriend... Just please, please, PLEASE don't do it on MY bed."


	2. Poor John

Poor John...

(Ridiculous Sheriarty, John POV)

John was tired. No, not tired, exhausted. The bruise-coloured bags drooping under your eyes, yawning every five seconds, dead on your feet kind of exhausted. All he wanted was coffee. No, not coffee. Just a lovely, luxurious rest undisturbed, with a hot calming mug of chamomile, maybe some milk chocolate, and afterwards he'd watch the latest Doctor Who...

Bliss, thought John, smiling as he trudged up the stairs, mumbling a quick greeting to Mrs Hudson, then letting himself into the flat he shared with his antisocial, self-proclaimed sociopathic genius, kind of best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Said genius was not in the house, thank goodness, so John was finally able to drop his bag and coat on the sofa, and drag his weary bones to the kitchen...

One deliciously brewed Earl Grey later (they were out of chamomile, and Sherlock hadn't bothered to tell him), John was settled in his armchair, finally able to rest after the hellish day at work that had left him completely drained of energy. As the theme music began, John sighed, and finally let himself relax...

SLAM! John's head snapped up from where it had fallen onto the arm of his chair. Damn, he must have fallen asleep... He rubbed his sleepy eyes and stretched out, grabbing his tea mug from where he'd left it. THUD. He glanced around suspiciously.

Shrugging it off, he headed to the sink. As he rinses his cup, he began to wonder. What if Sherlock had got himself into trouble again? He was uncannily good at that... Oh, well. If he had, John knew he could defend himself. Reaching into his pocket for his phone, he glanced at the time. One fifty in the morning... And Sherlock still wasn't back... A message was still glowing on the screen. Don't wait for me. SH. It was from five hours ago. John rolled his eyes. "Wasn't planning to..." He muttered to himself. THUD. There was yet another noise from outside...

"Mrs Hudson?" John called. He stowed his phone back in his pocket as he reached for the light switch. Light flooded the room, and John heard another loud crashing noise, like someone dropping something down the stairs again and again... He walked towards the door, and was just about to open it when it swung open wildly, revealing a very drunk looking James Moriarty, blinking slowly in the light.

"Hello...?" John said suspiciously. He was used to the master criminal visiting Sherlock now, and though he didn't exactly approve, he had to thank the guy for putting up with Sherlock being... Well, Sherlock.

Moriarty smiled drunkenly. "Ah thenk ya need teh help meh with Sherley... He's a bit *hic* drunk..." He slurred. "Er, yes. I think you've had a bit too much, too." Moriarty beamed like Christmas had come early. "Thank yeh, Jern..." He gestured behind him, or rather tried to. He ended up just looking rather bewilderedly at his arm as if he had only just noticed it was there...

Staggering backwards, he turned and almost fell down the stairs when he bent over to retrieve something. The something turned out to be none other than Sherlock.

The world's only consulting detective swayed drunkenly, one arm slung about Moriarty's waist, the other waving about wildly. John grinned despite himself at the ridiculousness of the situation. Sherlock Holmes, drunk after a date with his arch nemesis, Moriarty? He'd never have thought it, let alone believed it if someone told him it would happen!

Sherlock put his finger to his lips slowly. He had to try a few times to manage it, but he got there in the end. "Shhhhhhh..." He stage whispered. "John's ashhleep!"

John felt a his grin getting wider, spreading over his face. He realised that he must look like an idiot, beaming away like that, but really, as the only witnesses were completely drunk, he thought it was safe to assume that his sanity would not be questioned anytime soon. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Sherlock? I'm filming, alright?"

His genius flatmate grinned, and attempted to place his shushing finger over Moriarty's lips. It didn't really work, ending up with Sherlock just grabbing Moriarty's face to keep him still, and as the two masterminds staggered and swayed (Sherlock still madly "shushing" away, Moriarty giggling about being ticklish, or "ticklywish" as he deemed it). As they tried to get past the terrifying obstacle of a couple of stairs, the final step proved to be too much for the intoxicated pair as they swayed tipsily for a few seconds, John stepping back (still filming), before they collapsed onto the floor.

Sherlock flailed like a fish on the landing, and as his arms were around Moriarty, the shorter man was carried along with him down the stairs with a CRASH. John hurriedly ran forwards, phone forgotten. He could hear Moriarty giggling and a weird slurping sucking noise, so he supposed they were okay...

"Mrs Hudson!" He yelled. "Mrs Hudson!" After a minute of quiet apart from that odd slurping, and their landlady grumbling about not being their housekeeper, she finally emerged. There was a pause.

Then... "Oh, John... Did you push them down the stairs in a jealous rage?" Well, he hadn't been expecting that. "Er... No, what do you mean?" As John hurried down the stairs, he saw what she must have to come to that conclusion.

Sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs were Sherlock and Moriarty, a jumble of limbs, kissing passionately. John awkwardly met Mrs Hudson's worried gaze. There was a long slurp from the ground. John tried not to think about the two drunk men snogging behind him.

"Er..." Sluuuuuuuuuuuurp. "Don't worry, dear, I'm sure you'll get over him soon." John's eyebrows reached his hairline. "I'm not gay. Why does everyone...? Oh, never mind... Mrs Hudson, could you please help me get Sherlock and his... Er... Boyfriend...? Upstairs? Please?" She gave him a knowing look. "Okay, as long as you aren't all jealous..."

John sighed, and began to pull Sherlock away from his old nemesis.

They finally broke apart, with a sound like someone yanking out a sink plunger, and a long strand of saliva still hanging between them that probably contained about half a glass of wine...

John tried not to think too hard about this as he dragged a giggling Sherlock (now holding Moriarty's hand, as if he were trying to make John's life as difficult as possible...) up the stairs that the two drunks had been defeated by earlier. This proved to be ridiculously hard, as they kept falling over and wobbling about.

Apparently Sherlock still hadn't realised John was there because he kept "whispering", "Shhhhh... Don't wake up John", every five seconds...

By the time John had got them up the stairs (god, he hated stairs), into their night clothes (they insisted on undressing each other, which resulted in a lot more giggling and John covering his ears because of the slurping) and tucked in (yes, he actually had to tuck them in together) John was even more tired than he had been to start off with...

It was three in the morning before John finally got to sleep. He had had to check on the two men twice, feeling like a dad at his teenage daughter's birthday sleepover as he told them to stop giggling and sleep and that they would be tired in the morning...

John sighed. Then he smiled weakly as he remembered that he now had some brilliant blackmail material, if Sherlock ever got too irritating. Or just whenever, really. He shook his head, exasperated and exhausted.

Sherlock had an awful lot of explaining to do tomorrow...

(A.N. Wow, that got weird fast... Yay! John is a whovian! Please review [or I'll send a drunk pair of geniuses to your house at two in the morning... Ehehehe...])


	3. 221b, TV and Flour

John was trying to watch Doctor Who. Trying, that is, because Sherlock was baking an apple pie in the kitchen, which for once, was not covered by test tubes and chemicals, but flour and a mixing bowl full of badly mixed pastry dough. Why was the great consulting detective belittling himself with such a triviality as dessert? Well, John wasn't quite sure, but he guessed it had something to do with Moriarty, not that Sherlock would ever admit to being "soupy soppy" as he called it. Yes, that was probably it. John could picture the master criminal clapping his hands together delightedly, simpering away, "Oh, Sherley... For meeeeee?" He shuddered at the thought. "Damn!" Sherlock yelled from the kitchen. John briefly looked up from his laptop. His flatmate had been attacking a large cooking apple with a knife. What remained of the apple lay discarded on the table chopping board. Sherlock clutched his thumb, from which crimson blood was pouring.

Butter and flour was everywhere, and there was a stack of mix filled bowls in the sink. John rolled his eyes. "Cut it up slowly!" He called. "And get a tissue!" His comment was met with a grunt, and a crash as Sherlock stumbled on a dropped recipe book that John had found in a charity shop. John sighed and went back to his laptop. The BBC had really outdone themselves this time, he mused. He found himself getting excited about the plot, even going as far as to start squealing slightly when the Doctor almost got killed and escaping by a whisker yet again. Luckily, Sherlock was too busy muttering a long list of swear words to mock his fangirlyness. About fifteen minutes later, he was interrupted again. "John!" He flatmate demanded. He sighed. "What is it now?" "How the hell do you make pastry?!" John raised his eyebrows as he paused the programme and got out of his seat. "I thought that this mess WAS your pastry!" Sherlock glared at him, but said nothing (for a change). John picked up the cookbook. Since Sherlock refused to wear aprons, his usually impeccable black blazer was almost completely coated with flour and it was in his normally dark, now slightly grey, curls. John had to suppress a laugh at the sight of him. Smirking, he started to roll out the disaster pastry, adding more flour as it was almost flowing in the bowl. Sherlock sighed heavily, and set to work on the strangely chopped apples, placing them delicately in the pie dish (since when did they have a pie dish, pondered John), sprinkling them with sugar and cinnamon. John finished rolling out the pastry - now slightly less of a catastrophe. He was no cook, but he knew that what he had accomplished was at least not going to kill the person who ate it. "There." He said. "Thank you, John." Sherlock offered, stiffly. John grinned and went back to his Doctor Who... He was just starting the next episode, when Moriarty arrived. "Heeeeeey, Johnnyboy!" He said, grinning like a two year old, as usual. John looked up from his laptop, offered the consulting criminal a polite smile and a friendly wave and"What's he done now...?" He mumbled to himself as he walked towards the kitchen.

John shrugged and plugged his headphones back into his laptop. When Sherlock stopped shouting, the smoke alarm stopped its shrilly beeping and the kitchen stopped smelling so much of smoke, he could finally turn down the volume from as high as it would go back to normal. About ten minutes later, after getting back into it and re-excited, he was interrupted again. "Seriously?" He said, glaring as Moriarty gave him an apologetic look. "Sherlock says he's going out. He'll be back in half and hour... Ooh, what are you watching?" Grudgingly, John Watson moved up on the sofa, unplugged his headphones, and started a new episode. He soon discovered that Moriarty was an even bigger Doctor Who fanboy than he was, gasping at all the scary parts and giggling about Captain Jack's innuendos... John found himself actually enjoying his company, for once... Before long, Sherlock was back carrying... Three shopping bags?! John's opinion of Moriarty increased by double. Anyone who could make Sherlock go shopping was an amazing person in his mind. Moriarty grinned and Sherlock scowled. John was taken aback as he realised that he'd voiced his opinions aloud... "Come on, Sherlock, darling!" Moriarty insisted, tugging on the consulting detective's sleeve. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he told his boyfriend to budge up. By the end of the episode, Moriarty seemed to have mysteriously migrated to Sherlock's lap, fingers entangled in his floury hair. All three were aware of this change, though none commented. As the credits began to roll, Sherlock stood up, taking a laughing Moriarty (clinging to the front of the now non-floury jacket Sherlock wore, like a suited lemur) with him. John rolled his eyes, and plugged his headphones back in. An hour later, he shut down his laptop, just as Moriarty and Sherlock were emerging from the kitchen, dishevelled and now both completely covered in flour. John raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know?" The two exchanged a sly look. "The answer's no!" He finished hurriedly. "No, no," Moriarty laughed. "We just came to ask you if you wanted a piece of apple pie..." At John's horrified face, he continued, "Nah, not that disaster Sherley made, the one he went out to buy..." John brightened up considerably. "Well, in that case..."


	4. 221bSherlockluvsMoriarty

(This idea just popped into my head... *smacks face* I'm so weird...)

*four months earlier*

"John..." Sherlock sounded wary and slightly confused, which was a first for him. "Mhm?" John replied absentmindedly. "Why is the password for your laptop '221bSherlockluvsMoriarty'?" John bolted upright. "Um... No reason. I just thought it was uhhhh... A good password? And why are you on my computer, anywa- No! Don't go on to Word!" Too late. Sherlock was already reading. John could only watch and cringe through his fingers, covering his face. The consulting detective's eyes bulged out slightly in shock. John groaned peeking through the lattice of his fingers at his room mate's expression. Sherlock kept on scrolling down. His only comment was, "John. Love is not spelled 'luv'." John rolled his eyes at such a typical Sherlock remark. "I know that!" He insisted. Sherlock just frowned a little. "Are you sure? You spelled your password like that and the title of the last three stories I just read. How many of these are there, as a matter of interest?" John's face burned crimson. "Only a couple..." Sherlock looked up from the computer. "Liar. It says you've written another ten of them."

Moriarty was sitting in the back of a greasy spoon café. He wasn't eating or drinking anything, it was just a convenient place to meet a client. Plus, he barely trusted anyone to satisfy his taste buds without attempting to poison him. The client soon arrived. She was a small fluffy blonde thing with more make up than clothes. He raised an eyebrow at her attire, but did not comment. It paid to be polite, he often found. The client had a surprisingly deep gruff voice, for such a tiny woman. She babbled out her story, and how she needed his skills to rid her of her string of lovers, who all wanted her dead. Apparently, she couldn't commit adultery without getting caught. Silly little dear. The consulting criminal yawned, hand over his mouth. "I do apologise. Please go on, Miss...?" The Fluffy Thing looked startled, but pleased to be addressed by him. "Jolyonia Rumpleworth." He winced. What an awful name. "Do continue, Miss Rumpleworth." "Do call me Jolyonia..." She simpered. "Uh.. Yes." She gave him a sugary smile. He was relieved when in his breast pocket, his phone began to ring. "Stayin' Alive" blared out into the awkward tension of the café. He reached for it, making an extremely fake apologetic face. Sherlock. He grinned. Reaching across the table, he shook the Fluffy Thing's hand. "Terribly sorry. I have to go." He left, whistling cheerfully as he left the Fluffy Thing's squeaking behind him. He put the phone to his ear. "Hello, Virgin..." He purred. He heard a laugh on the other end. "James..." Sherlock replied in the same tone of voice rather mockingly. James? When had Sherlock addressed him as James before? Sherlock sounded excited. "Come to 221B! Now! There's something you have to see!" Moriarty grinned. "I'll be there." Was that a squeal in the background? He rolled his eyes. Turning up the collar of his coat, he squinted into the rain he had failed to notice previously, and hailed a taxi.

Minutes later, Sherlock ran down the stairs, and opened the door, sending a shower of the storm outside followed by a drenched evil genius. Pouting adorably, said genius shivered and looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock was practically bouncing in delight. "Hurry up!" He demanded, rushing up the stairs. Moriarty removed his sopping wet coat and held it out an arms length in front of him as he grudgingly followed his nemesis upstairs. "This had better be good..." He muttered to himself. As he entered the sitting room of 221B, Watson - who had previously been slumped in his armchair - squeaked, jumped to his feet and scampered off to the kitchen. Moriarty would liked to think it was from fear, however, he knew that was certainly untrue.

The colour of Watson's face had been a dead giveaway, if you had not been so experienced in reading body language. But the real puzzle was what had caused such a display of embarrassment... Moriarty let his eyes trace over Sherlock for a second, noting every detail, from his slightly ruffled hair to the creases of his trousers and shirt. His enemy darted forwards suddenly and forced a laptop into his arms. Moriarty raised a delicate eyebrow. "Just read it." The consulting detective insisted.

_He looked me in the eyes. I gazed back at him, not thinking about tomorrow, not thinking about how he was effectively providing me with a job, just focusing on his dark brown eyes. He smiled at me, and I loved the slight curve in his lips and the little dimples in his cheeks. "Sherlock..." A voice cut in. I sighed, at having been forced from my daydream. Moriarty wasn't there. John stood beside me, holding out a plastic folder full of evidence. "Lestrade said that you have to look into these..." He was apologising. "Yes, yes. I'll see." I replied impatiently, taking the folder from him. I closed my eyes again, and willed for the images to return. I heard John leaving, late for work again. His face danced before my eyes, sorely tempting and sorely missed. Bzzzzz. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Hello, love. JM xx. I smiled and pocketed the device, only to pull it out as it vibrated again. Hey, Sherley. I'm coming round to play... JM xx. My eyes widened in astonishment. Bzzzzz. I see you... ;) JM xx. I rolled my eyes. "Where are you?" I said aloud to the room. Bzzzzz. Here. JM xx. A warm pair of hands clasped gently over my eyes. "Hello, Virgin.." He whispered, breath tickling the shell of my ear. "Moriarty." He bent to kiss me and I turned my head to allow him, making a small hum of approval. I pulled him onto the sofa next to me, wrapping my arms around his waist. Running his tongue along my lips -_

"Who wrote this?" Moriarty was crowing with laughter. Sherlock looked faintly embarrassed and annoyed by this reaction. "John did." He replied with a shrug. "Welllllll..." Moriarty purred. "John, you're a good writer. Except that you spelled 'love' wrong. It's 'LOVE', not 'LUV'." John's voice sounded exasperated from the kitchen. "I know that... It was the stupid spell check." He protested. "Yeah, right..." Both consulting geniuses muttered. Moriarty grinned. Sherlock threw him a wry smile. "Now why did you really call me here?" Moriarty enquired. "Well..." Sherlock grinned with a smirk, and the rest he whispered into his archenemy's ear.

When John walked back into the room, he felt like he had fallen straight into chapter 7. "Uh, I'll leave you to it, shall I?" He mumbled. His face turned a pale pink colour as he looked away from the scene unfolding before him. "That would be excellent, thanks." Came the muffled reply, a few seconds later.


	5. Puzzle Piece (WARNING)

(A.N. For Kerenza, because she's sick of all the abusive/incapacity to have emotions type Sheriarty fics xx)

WARNING! No actual sex, though it's pretty close... Rated M to be safe. Not for the eyes of the innocent! Don't like, don't read.

Sherlock is bored.

Mind numbingly, twitchily, yawningly bored.

He's tried shooting the wall. Once you hit a smiley face three dozen times in the eye it gets tiring.

He's tried calling Lestrade.

Apparently the incompetent baboons the DI employs are capable of solving a few crimes without his genius. He'll have to wait until something interesting up...

He's tried using the different chemicals left over from yesterday's experiments to create a new combination of toxins...

Unfortunately, this only succeeded in painting his nose a peculiar shade of yellow, destroying a boiling tube, and shattering a conical flask into several large pieces that managed to stab their way into his feet... (Of all the days to have gone barefoot...)

Finally, he gives up. Searching through the pockets of the jacket he had worn the last time they had met (it still smelt not unpleasantly of chlorine and a musky, spicy scent that he recognised as men's cologne, not his or John's...) Screwed up into a tiny wad of paper, was a piece to a puzzle. The puzzle being James Moriarty. Sherlock fully intended to solve him; the sooner, the better. Gingerly, the consulting detective prised the folded corners of paper apart, revealing a name and number written in a casual, almost feminine hand, blue Biro ink. Ambidextrous, Sherlock decided. Favours the right hand to write. Jim. Written above the looping digits, almost flirting, teasing him with the dot of the "i" replaced with a tiny blue heart. Sherlock resisted the childish urge to laugh at the daring charm of his adversary. Oh, Jim...

He hated phone calls. He much preferred to text. Less contact required. More precise. Only this, this was an exception. Sherlock sighed and keyed in the number. He noted a "666" in the contact detail at the end which made him smile, if only briefly. He paused. What should he save it under? Jim? Moriarty? Jim, too personal. Moriarty, far too formal. James was nice. A good blend of both. Sherlock tapped in "James", before saving the contact. He hesitated before placing his finger decidedly on the call button. Jim picked up on the third ring. He sounded distracted, absentminded. "Is this Molly again? Please leave me alone, dear, I told you it wouldn't work out." He sighed almost sleepily in his soft Irish accent. Sherlock tried to ignore the burning, gnawing feelings -anger? Jealousy?!- towards that Molly for the "dear" Jim had so casually graced her with. He exhaled slowly. "Jim. It's me." Straight, blunt, to the point. Perfect. Jim snickered. "Oh, hello, Sherley~ Jealous?" Surprise was evident in Sherlock's voice as he answered. "What are you on about, James?" He pronounced his - what, enemy? Nemesis? Ally? Undecided, he filed him under "contact" - contact's name with slight contempt. Jim sighed. "Sher~lock. You have been silly." Sherlock felt confused, which was a rare occurrence. He stayed silent, listening intently for any clues his contact might accidentally reveal. Moriarty sighed. "Sherlock," he drawled. Without awaiting an answer, he went on. "If you don't have anything exciting to tell me -" "Like what?" The consulting detective cut in. His contact giggled. "Oh, you are still there. Like, I don't know, like what you're wearing or that John will be at his girlfriend - whichever one it is now's - house until tomorrow evening, or something interesting..." Sherlock shivered as he heard Moriarty almost moan the last word. "Well, you already know both of those facts." Moriarty tutted. "Yes, yes. It sounds much sweeter coming from your... lips..." Sherlock growled in frustration. Was the bastard deliberately trying to seduce him? Jim just gave another one of those breathy giggles. "Where are you?" Sherlock almost yelled.

There was a pause. Sherlock could hear him, or someone else, moving about. A breeze. The clunk of metal on wood. An odd scraping. Sherlock heard Jim's voice, but it did not come from his phone."I'm outside, climbing. Knocking is so boooooooring..." Sherlock was startled, but he did not let it show through. "Oh, really?" The silhouette of his contact appeared on the outdoor windowsill. Sherlock quickly opened it to let him in. Jim rolled through the window, mission impossible style. He was wearing another dark blue suit, this time the black tie was lightly embossed with little black hearts. Snow dusted his knees, elbows and shoes. His hair was full of the stuff; white icy fluff mixed in with the dark brown, letting it flop slightly into his eyes. He had a card and a huge bunch of flowers in his mouth, white teeth sinking slightly into the pale green stems. His hands were as cold and white as the snow coating him. Sherlock reached over him to shut the window, and he removed the gifts from his contact's mouth with his other hand. Jim gave him a playful smirk at this. He shivered and yanked off the jacket of his suit. Sherlock gaped. "W-what are you doing?" Moriarty rolled his eyes. In a plaintive falsetto he whined, "Darling, you don't except a laaaaaaaady to freeze to death in your flat, do you?" Sherlock scowled. In a more normal voice his contact continued, "You weren't expecting me to do a striptease were you?" Sherlock continued to scowl. Jim giggled. "I'm glad you have such a high opinion of me..." He fingered the top button of his pale blue shirt thoughtfully. Sherlock smirked at him. Jim leaned forward. Sherlock was abruptly aware that their faces were only inches apart. He almost flinched as Jim licked the tip of his nose, tongue darting out like a snake.

The consulting detective's eyes widened. Jim chuckled softly. "Your nose was yellow." He wrinkled up his face. "Tastes horrible..." Sherlock had forgotten about the toxins on his nose. "Quick! Wash out your mouth!" His contact raised an elegant eyebrow. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stop it. That was poison from my experiment earlier, you idiot!" He just laughed. "Sherleeeeeey~ you silly, I'm immune to most toxins. A little poison a day builds up a resistance." Sherlock made a small noise that if directed at any other would be seen as disgust. Moriarty could easily interpret his moods, however, and knew that it was disguised relief. To change the subject, he settled himself down into one of the chairs. "That's John's seat," Sherlock mused. Moriarty grinned like a shark. "Welllllll. Are you going to come and... punish me?" Sherlock sucked in his breath. He hadn't been quite sure about what he'd wanted when he'd called Jim. Now he knew what Jim wanted, he was caught between anxiety and the lust and thrill of the idea. He looked at his contact - no, no, too formal. Opponent? Partner? Equal? Sherlock gazed into the playfully defiant dark eyes of James Moriarty. He smiled when he saw a little of the same anxiety reflected back at him. Slowly, carefully, he closed the space between them. Jim's pupils dilated, filling the chocolate whorls of the iris with inky black. He realised his own blue-grey eyes must be doing the same. Sherlock looped Jim's arms around his shoulders. The consulting criminal was unresisting; his breathing was becoming heavier, chest moving up and down faster through his shirt clad torso. Imitating the predatory smirk Jim had worn earlier, Sherlock pressed closer, dragging his hips experimentally over the other man's thigh. This prompted a tiny squeak from Moriarty, encouraging Sherlock with other... chemical experiments.

The consulting detective was surprised at how little of a fight the other man put up, especially by the time he had reduced his adversary to a whimpering, gasping mess of huge dark eyes and slivers of tempting pale skin peeking out of the gap between his shirt and trousers. Sherlock smirked and kissed Moriarty with all the hunger and excitement he usually reserved for his cases. He began to create a formula in his head of the amount of mouth pressure needed to make the criminal genius soon discovered that it was equal parts lick, suck and bite, divided by the total amount of mouth pressure. Mathematics had never been more enjoyable, he mused as Moriarty arched his back like a cat and mewled similarly, digging the "claws" of his fingernails into Sherlock's back and through his shirt. The consulting detective drew back and just looked at his adversary. James was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly through his shirt. Sherlock had never hated a garment more. He wanted that shirt on the floor, he wanted to see flesh, to touch skin... Moriarty smirked, pushing away the hair that fell carelessly into his eyes. Through his laboured breathing, he still managed to drawl, "Not bad... For a virgin." Sherlock growled low in his throat and moved to attack his mouth again. He stopped for a second, admiring the imprint in the full lower lip. Blood blossomed from the incisions his teeth had made, precise and perfect, breaking the otherwise unmarred flesh. He gently ran his tongue over the blood. Moriarty giggled. For a split-second, Sherlock knew what he was doing, he was in control. Then Jim's hips twisted savagely, and he was abruptly pinned against the armchair's cushions by the suddenly much stronger younger man. Said man ran his eyes - all child-like wonder and beautiful vast pupils - over Sherlock hungrily, taking in every little detail. With his hair in his face and the breath knocked out of him, Sherlock gazed through half lidded eyes up at him. "Gorgeous", Jim breathed. He leaned down, tracing his tongue slowly over Sherlock's lips. They parted immediately and he smirked, finding his own winning strategy in the game. As Jim's tongue tickled his teeth, Sherlock snaked warm hands up the back of his shirt, coming into contact with his still icy skin from the winter weather. He shivered, holding on tighter to the taller man as his hands drew slow looping numbers over his exposed spine. Moriarty shuddered at the heat emanating from his partner's fingers. Sherlock chuckled darkly, drawing the snow and sweat soaked shirt over his head. "If you rip that, I'll make you pay..." Jim threatened softly. Sherlock smirked and slowly, deliberately tore it in half. "Oops." The sarcasm practically dripped from his mouth. Moriarty raised a perfect eyebrow. "Well, then. It seems, Mr. Holmes, we have a difficulty to settle." His voice was deadly calm, though his face was grinning. "Go on, then, Mr. Moriarty. We'll soon see how this disagreement can be sorted." Sherlock replied, equally jokingly. Was he, Sherlock Holmes, flirting?! It seemed impossible. Then again, french-kissing your supposed great enemy was not a thing expected of a person, was it? Not in normal society, anyway. Then again, normal and Sherlock never saw eye to eye. Moriarty's lustful gaze turned to a smirk of triumph. "Well, I do think we ought to start with that shirt. It's an absolute disgrace." Sherlock groaned, before allowing him to tug the dark purple garment over his head. "You sound like my mother..." Moriarty howled with laughter. "I'm taking your clothes off and you're thinking of your mother?!" Sherlock grinned up at him. "If you like, my dear..." At this, Moriarty pouted. "Such a naughty, naughty boy..." Each word prompted a poke in Sherlock's chest. He winced slightly. Although perfectly manicured and masculine, Moriarty's killer nails were not to be messed with. Sherlock grabbed his hands with a growl of impatience. "Will you stop playing around and get on with it?" He sighed. "How rude." Moriarty pouted, poking Sherlock one last time. "But... For you, I suppose I could make an exception, Mr. Holmes..." Sherlock smiled wryly. "You'd better, Mr Moriarty." Wrapping his legs around Moriarty's waist, he pushed against him, drawing a gasp from the man above. "You devious little - Ahhh!" Sherlock pinched his chest experimentally. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?" Sherlock smirked. "Quite sure." He commented cheerfully."Well, little sluts like you deserve to be punished," There was a sadistic pleasure gleaming in Moriarty's eye as he growled out the words. Sherlock swallowed. Regaining his composure, he smirked at the younger man on top. "Oh, really, dear?" "Oh, yes..." Moriarty purred, slicing a scarlet stripe down Sherlock's chest with a deadly nail. Sherlock inhaled sharply. "And how are you going to do that?" Moriarty laughed breathlessly. "Oh, my darling Sherley... Like this, of course..." Moriarty shoved his torso hard against Sherlock's, forcing him back further, so he was almost lying down. "Jim..." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh, please do be quiet. You're ruining my revenge plan." Moriarty smiled slowly to himself as he reached for Sherlock's belt. The consulting detective drew in a breath at the gesture. He curled his fingers around the buckle, loosening it from the belt loops. Jim grinned. "Hands up, baby," he drawled. Sherlock giggled as his hands were clasped within the grip of his own belt. Jim pushed him back a little further. "Now..." He teased. "How about a little silence while I work?" Sherlock laughed. "I think that would be wise, Mr. Moriarty."

Moriarty leaned back over him and traced his tongue gently over his lips. Sherlock grinned and used his kissing formula. They kissed softly for a while, until Sherlock grew impatient and pressed closer to deepen the kiss. Immediately, Moriarty's hands were everywhere. Sliding over his back, tracing over his sides, slipping past his hips... Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, which seemed to amuse Moriarty, who began rubbing his hips further up his thigh, until he whimpered in ecstasy. "Moriarty..." He moaned into the younger man's mouth. He could feel him grinning into the manic mash their lips had become. "Yes, Sherley, dear?" Though his breathing was as laboured as Sherlock's, he (infuriatingly) still managed to retain an air of casual indifference. "J-J-Jim!" Now he had taken to sliding their hips together, crashing into the back of the armchair. "Jim - ahhh! M-Moriarty!" "Yes, darling?" Sherlock gasped. "Moriarty!" He yelped. "Beg, my dear, beg!" Sherlock howled as Moriarty shoved him harder, grinding faster. "MORIARTY!"

Suddenly, the consulting criminal was on the floor sprawling. Sherlock leapt up from the chair in protest. A man in a dark snow caked raincoat was beating - was that a dictionary? - down on Moriarty. Ignoring the ache of his muscles, Sherlock pounded the mystery attacker in the back of the head. The man collapsed to the ground. Sherlock grabbed Jim and shoved him back in the chair. Then he turned back to the assassin. The man rolled over, hands above his head. Then Sherlock stared and he gaped back. "John?!" Doctor Watson had a rather lovely magenta inflamed patch on his cheek, courtesy of Moriarty, and Sherlock was sure he displayed a similar coloured one on the top of his back, thanks to Sherlock. John sat up slowly, rubbing his cheek. He glared accusingly at his flatmate. "Ow." He said sourly. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock was aghast. "Well, Mara - Louise - no, Jennifer, broke up with me, so I came back home. What is he doing here?! I thought you were being attacked!" Sherlock and Moriarty glanced at each other sheepishly. Their gaze wordlessly asked who was going to tell him. Neither chose to. They had to admit it had looked bad, still did... Both men were shirtless and sweating, there were long, bloody scratches on both of their backs, and their lips were bruised and swollen. Sherlock's hands were still bound behind his back and Moriarty's hair was no longer swept back. It fell into his face and was disheveled, similar to the condition of Sherlock's. John's eyes slowly widened as he realised. "Oh, GOD, Sherlock! That's MY armchair!" He stood up cautiously, shaking his head as if to get rid of any unpleasant images that presented themselves to his mind. He backed away towards the door. "Uh, I'll just, um, go out tonight, shall I?" Sherlock breathed out slowly, relieved. He nodded wordlessly. "Yes, I think that would be best." Moriarty added, smirking at Watson. "See you tomorrow, bye bye!" The criminal waved him away and he walked back towards the door. John's face drained of all colour as Sherlock moved back to where Moriarty still lay back on the armchair. He leaned over the psychotic genius and delivered a swift kiss to each of the places where the dictionary had landed. John's mouth hung open in astonished silence. Sherlock looked up. "John. Goodbye!" Speechless, the doctor shut the door behind him and walked downstairs, feeling numb. He'd never have expected anything like that from his (supposedly) asexual sociopathic best friend. On the armchair, Moriarty's breathing returned to normal. Sherlock grinned and wiggled his bound wrists. "Well, Mr. Moriarty, I do think that my punishment is in order..." Jim flicked Sherlock's nose playfully. "Hey, it's still a bit yellow..." Sherlock pouted slightly, closing the small space between them. Jim smiled and reached to unbuckle the belt securing his arms. Sherlock allowed the deft fingers to close around his wrists, releasing his hands. He ran his fingers through the criminal's dark hair, fingers knotting and gently tangling within the still damp strands. Jim reached up to press a soft kiss to his lover's warm full lips. He pulled away before Sherlock could retaliate, stroking a pale finger over the unmarked top lip. "I like your mouth..." He commented in that same lilting drowsy voice he'd answered the phone with. "Especially the cupid's bow," He slowly traced his index finger over it, smiling as Sherlock shivered at his touch. "So deliciously sexy..." Sherlock pushed him back into the chair. "Jim... I... I want- I need-" Moriarty clamped his hand down over the consulting detective's mouth. "Nah. I'm tired now." He yawned. He rolled over, pinning Sherlock beneath him. He gazed into the icy blue depths of his eyes for a second. Then he was up on his feet, stretching out his arms and fake yawning. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "James, what are you doing?" The criminal mastermind gave him a beautiful beaming child-like smile. "Are you coming Sherley?" Was his only reply. He headed in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. The detective wasn't quite sure whether to be disturbed or amused by the fact that Moriarty knew exactly which room was his. He decided to be amused, swinging himself out of the chair and following him through the doorway. Jim lay on his side, facing Sherlock. He was lying on the side of the bed Sherlock refused to sleep on. More of a vulnerable position in case of an attack. Of course, Jim knew this and was most likely exploiting this fact. Sherlock got in beside him and looked at him expectantly. Jim merely offered him an adorable smile, closed his eyes and snuggled up next to him. This trusting gesture did odd fluttering things to Sherlock's stomach and he wrapped his arms around the mastermind beside him. Jim sighed happily and leaned into him. "James? Are you actually going to sleep?" Moriarty frowned, a tiny crease Sherlock hadn't noticed when his eyes were open appearing between the two sharp eyebrows. "I thought that we were going to -" Moriarty tutted and shushed him. "Plenty of time for that, later. But now I'm tired. So shut up." Sherlock rolled his eyes, holding the younger man closer. Jim snuffled slightly in content. The consulting detective smiled and pressed a light kiss to his intellectual equal's forehead. After a couple of minutes in silence, Sherlock peered down at the smaller man. Jim's eyes were closed tight and his breathing was steady. Said intellectual equal had apparently fallen asleep on him. The detective was, of course, suspicious, however when Moriarty was poked, he just snuffled and snuggled closer, mumbling something that sounded an awful lot like "Love you Sherlock".The next thing Sherlock knew, he was waking up from the best night of sleep he'd had since he could remember, in a bizarrely good mood; a sleepy master criminal in his arms and a swollen, painfully tender mouth.

If being bored resulted in this, he'd have to put up with it more often...

(Well, how was my first attempt at more graphic stuff? I hope you liked it. Please review, and tell me whether I should ever consider writing anything like this again, or if it is STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.)


	6. Our Fall

{Why? 'Cause Sheriarty is the way forward! I'm busy converting Martha, wish me luck...}

Our Fall

Sherlock had already fallen. Just not in the way he had originally intended.

He'd reached the roof when he finally realised what the criminal had truly demanded of him. Of course. He wouldn't have been any less dramatic. He really should have foreseen this. But really? Wasn't there a simpler way of doing it? Sherlock supposed it was a test. Proof, that he really cared. Proof, that he was willing to die to save his friends. And die he would. But not if he could avoid it. Definitely not.

He sighed heavily as he pushed open the emergency exit roof door. Moriarty sat, swinging his legs, over the edge of the roof. Music blared from his phone, slicing into the stillness of the day, so quiet and cold compared to the bustling, screaming streets of London below. He shut it off, absentmindedly. He was talking again, all purring villainy and charming, serpentine smirk, but Sherlock simply processed the information without listening. He studied his nemesis. His hair was slicked back as always and he was impeccably dressed. Sherlock let his attention flit to the flyaway strands, imagining running his fingers through the dark restlessness reluctantly tamed on his scalp. He let his vision slide over the mastermind. He started with the eyes. He always started with the eyes. Eyes, according to some sentimental he didn't care for the name of, were the windows to the soul. If so, then Sherlock would love to see Moriarty's soul. He wondered if it would dance and whirl like the ebony and cocoa irises he was so intently concentrating on. That would indeed be art worth his time.

{Sorry that it's quite short and vague, but I always wondered why Sherlock always gives Moriarty these intense gazes... ;) } REVIEW!


	7. Lost

Lost

{Warning, major character death... T_T}

It had been a year.

He traced musician's fingers almost lovingly over the cruel, cold marble. As he forced his eyes to refocus, he noticed that for the first time, his hands were shaking.

When they had told him, he had been silent.

They had expected him to be ecstatic; victorious, even.

All he felt was empty. Nothing.

Observing his own trembling fingers, he knew he was being pathetic. Human. Ordinary. Ordinary Sherlock, he recalled Him singing. That had provoked him at the time. He had provoked him. But he had loved Him as well. Or felt the closest to love he'd felt before. He didn't believe in love.

Science and logical, regular facts he could believe. He could understand equations and symbols and how the world worked. Except astronomy.

He had always teased him about astronomy. He knew now that the earth orbited the sun, rather than the other way round. That was easy. Simple. Memorable. Useless. He would trade all the information in the world if it would bring Him back.

Still now, he was waiting. He hadn't believed He was truly... lost... when they had told him. Even now, he was trying hard to deal with the fact that He wouldn't be there; springing up from behind the memorials in his deep blue suit. New. Freshly laundered. Tailored to perfection, custom made. Italian leather shoes.

Previously unworn.

Did you miss me?

Yes.

God, yes.

Sherlock didn't believe in an omnipresent deity in the clouds. Clouds; simply water vapour.

God; humanity's natural craving for more.

For something to trust, to believe in. A purpose to life.

Praying was of no use to him.

It was dangerous to place all your faith in one person.

Especially when you find you know so little about them...

He was only truly realising this now.

{Reviews will make me update faster! I'm sorry, I've been busy with my advent calendar... There's Sheriarty in it, though... I might update some of those chapters as part of this collection...}


	8. The Dublin Disaster!

{Happy Christmas for yesterday! This was originally from my advent calenIar, but because I crushed Vidgealz C Valvatore's feels with the last chapter, I think I ought to put some of the fluff in... Hehe... Thank you for reviewing, by the way!}

The phone rings. At first, he ignored it. Staring down through the microscope at the bubbling green froth on the slide, he narrowed his eyes. The persistent pealing continues. RRRRRING. "John..." The great detective called for his blogger. He carried on monitoring the movement of the various bacteria surrounding the vegetation, making careful mental notes. Interesting. The bacteria weren't after the nutritional value of the plant at all; they were seeking warmth from the cell sap...

RING RING. The aggravating clamour for his attention still burst from the device on the table beside him. He was busy! It could wait. It if was Mycroft again, then he'd... Sherlock retreated from this train of thought. He was supposed to be working! "John!" Nothing from his flatmate. Strangely enough, what he had first mistaken for fungi seemed to be amoebae, floating around the slide and knocking his experiment off balance.

RING RING. Damn it, some people just never gave up! Sighing, Sherlock rubbed his aching eyes, pushing the microscope away. He reached over and grasped the device, not bothering to read the call ID. "Who is this?" There was a weird strangled half laughing - half crying from the other end. "HOW DAMN LONG does it take you to answer your FRICKING phone! Sherley, you won't believe this." Moriarty. He sounded... Distraught, almost. "Well?" Sherlock glanced at the screen. Ten past three in the morning. Ah. That'd be why John wasn't around. "Well, I had a client in Dublin a couple of months ago, and when I got there he - he..." Sherlock was paying attention now. "What did he do to you?!" Moriarty let out a very forced choked laugh. "He... He was..." Sherlock grabbed the phone, knuckles turning white. "What?" He replied urgently. "He was a LEPRECHAUN!" Sherlock burst out laughing.

"Shut up!" The consulting criminal roared. "It isn't amusing at all. The fecking slimeball got offended when I laughed at it, and now... now..." Sherlock stopped laughing as he heard the tremor of - tears? Impossible - emotion in his archenemy's voice. "What's happened?" He tried to keep his voice calm and even. Was Jim drunk or high? He didn't sound either. "Sherley... Promise you won't laugh?" Sherlock sighed. That would probably be quite difficult. "Yes." Jim squeaked in outrage. "NO! YOU'VE GOT TO SAY IT! Oh, sorry darling. I'm a bit, um, off, today." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in alarm. Jim's notorious mood swings weren't usually this bad... "I promise..." Sherlock replied cautiously. Suddenly anguished again, Jim sobbed, "Sherlock... I'M PREGNANT!"

There was a horrible pause, filled with the noise of Jim's choked sobs and Sherlock's doubt and slight terror. What if it were true..? "Impossible." He remarked bluntly. "HOW DARE YOU - YOU FECKING SOCIOPATH, YOU UNFEELING DRIED UP SHELL OF A PERSON!" Oh dear. Apparently, Jim's many mood swings had multiplied enormously thanks to his "pregnancy". Sherlock was almost starting to believe the crazy story... "AND WORST OF ALL, IT'S YOURS!" Sherlock paled considerably. He was clutching the device so hard he was surprised it hadn't broken. "What." It wasn't a question. Jim was back to his normal self.

"Yup! I'm here preggers with Baby... Um, haven't decided, Holmes-Moriarty! It's so exciting! Ooh, I hope s/he looks like their Daddy!" He giggled at his own joke. Sherlock buried his face in his hands. "Where are you?" He groaned. "Obviously not in the office. There's no way you'd make a call like this so publicly. Perhaps a car? I can't hear an engine or traffic though and the acoustics are all wrong, so more likely to be one of your various apartments. A bedroom, maybe? Definitely not a kitchen or bathroom." Jim made a giggly sound of appreciation. "Ooh, my Sherley, you clever boy. You were right, it is only a flat, so I suppooooose you can come over..." Sherlock sighed. "You want me to come over?" "OF COURSE I BLOODY WANT YOU TO COME OVER! THAT'S WHY I ASKED, YOU MORON!" Sherlock sucked in his breath. "I meant please. Sorry, Sherleylocks." The consulting detective rubbed his exhausted eyes. "Alright, but how do I know this isn't a trap?" Jim burst into tears.

Sherlock put his coat on and swung his scarf around his neck faster than he'd assumed possible. He grabbed the phone and dashed out of the door. "James?" He could hear the man wailing quietly on the other end. "Tell me where to go. I'm coming." Moriarty brightened up considerably, rattling off an address with a light chuckle. Sherlock was just glad he wasn't crying. That in itself was terrifying, let alone the fact that the person sobbing their eyes out was the most dangerous man in London, possibly the world. He hailed a taxi; luckily,the address wasn't too far from Baker Street, just a few blocks. After getting in, he put the phone to his ear to make sure Moriarty was still there. In the Irish lilt so adorable Sherlock thought it should be illegal, Moriarty was singing quietly, apparently to his "pregnant" belly.

"Rest tired eyes a while,

Sweet is thy baby's smile,

Angels are guarding

And they watch o'er thee.

Sleep, sleep, grah mo chree

Here on your daddy's knee,

Angels are guarding

And they watch o'er thee,

The birdeens sing a fluting song

They sing to thee the whole day long, Wee fairies dance o'er hill and the dale, For very love of thee."

Sherlock felt an unusual fluttering from within his chest cavity. He felt like he had just intruded upon a very personal, very private moment. Apparently unflustered, Moriarty chuckled quietly to himself. "Sherley, my darling, what are we calling our child?" Sherlock was unsure as how to reply. "Well, how far along are you?" He eventually managed. "Three months, Sherley, three fricking months of needing to pee constantly, sore nipples and morning sickness! And I have to suffer another six! Names, Sherlock, quick!" Sherlock watched the streets blur past. "Er..." "AND NOT JOHN!" Moriarty cut in with a shriek. "No son of mine will be called such a BORING name." "Well, how about Mycroft?" Pause. Sherlock could feel the glare burning into him. "That was a joke!" He said hurriedly. "It had better have been..." Jim growled. Sherlock got the sudden image of him wrapping his arms around his stomach protectively, glaring at the supposed threat. Oddly enough, the image was rather heartwarming.

"Well, for a girl, um... Aeryn, meaning Ireland... And a boy... Finn?" Moriarty squealed in delight, clapping his hands together. "You are so perfect, baby, yes you are!" "Oh. Well, thank you, James." "Not you, you doofus. Baby!" The criminal snarled. "Oh. Oh! Okay." The taxi pulled up outside an ordinary, slightly shabby looking building. Sherlock paid the driver and exited, ringing the doorbell. "I'm just outside." He informed the criminal genius. "Yes, darling, I knooooow. I have to walk down these stairs to get to you!" Sherlock shrugged, hanging up. A few seconds later, the door swung open, revealing a very unexpected sight. Sherlock had presumed drugs or alcohol to be the cause, but when the criminal threw his arms about his shoulder in relief, he knew that somehow he was telling the truth.

Sherlock could feel the press of Jim's swollen stomach against this own. When he was released, Sherlock just looked at his nemesis, the father of his child. Who wouldn't - his normally perfect hair flopped forwards messily, he was dressed in casual sleep wear, and his torso was completely distorted by the bulge of his small, but very visible, baby bump. "You think I'm ugly now. You don't like me anymore, because of this..." Jim said in a small voice. He poked his belly angrily, though softly enough to show that he didn't mean it. "No, no." Sherlock took the younger man into his arms. "You're just as lovely as always." Jim beamed. "Thank you, Sherlock." His tone was serious and slightly embarrassed. Sherlock didn't think that Moriarty got embarrassed; apparently this was not the case.

"Aeryn-Finn is very proud of her father..." "So you've decided she's a girl, then. And which father?" Sherlock commented dryly. "No, no, I just think that as Sherlock is a girl's name, if Baby is a boy, then he won't mind being addressed as "she"." Sherlock wanted to hit him. He didn't, though, because you don't hit the "mother" of your child. "Fine. Which father?" Jim was hyper and delighted once again. "Well, you can be father, and I'll be daddy!" Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing, as he didn't want Jim to go all Attila the Hun on him...

{Sorry if that was OOC... Review? Tell me some of your thoughts and how i can improve!}


	9. In the Morning

{Yes, here we go, part two already...}

Sherlock woke up, instantly alert. Where was he? The room was dimly lit and he was warm, very warm. He judged he had about two minutes until whoever lay beside him awoke. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he scanned the room, making observations about the owner who was presumably beside him. The arm loosely slung around his waist indicated that no harm would come to him.

However... The room was plain, with a creamy ceiling the colour of banana milk. There was nothing of note, except that it was clearly never lived in. The bedside table had an inch of dust on it and there were no signs of where the door opening had scratched the wall. It was oddly comforting, lying drowsy and content with another warm body beside him, he reflected. Too bad he only had another seventeen seconds to enjoy it...

Suddenly, the person beside him rolled over, pulling him closer with a small hum of content. He froze. Definitely male; the cologne, sweat levels and hard torso proved that, but what was that?! Realisation dawned on him like a gaggle of stampeding geese (I detest geese... Geese are evil). Damn. Moriarty. Sherlock could feel clothing against his skin. He was safe. He exhaled slowly. How had this happened? The last thing he remembered was walking upstairs with him... He had planned to leave once the pregnant criminal had fallen asleep, but... "You drugged me, didn't you?" Moriarty gave an exasperated sigh. "Shut up, Sherlock, I'm asleep." He snuggled closer. Sherlock knew he was awake, but he desperately hoped that this was a dream and he was safe at home with his amoebae...

"God, Sherlock! Would you stop thinking so DAMN LOUD?" No. He would never dream this up. At least he hoped not. "Well, did you?" Moriarty groaned in irritation. "If it makes you feel any better, Sherleylocks," he growled out the pet name, "I drugged us both. Now shut up. And relax. You're like a corpse!" Well, you would know... Sherlock thought. Aloud he responded, "Fine." He let his muscles loosen slightly, recalling the number of different fonts in John's newspapers and arranging them alphabetically. Inwardly, he found it ironic. The psychopath and the sociopath. The consulting criminal and the consulting detective. He remembered some of the first words Moriarty had directed to him. 'We were made for each other, Sherlock...'

How true it was, now that he really thought about it. Sighing, he gave in and wrapped his arms around the man beside him. "What are you doing?" Moriarty's voice broke him out of his reverie. "Sleeping, you idiot. What else?" Moriarty just giggled softly. Sherlock let his eyes fall closed again. He listed the many varieties of printer ink used and the printing style methodically, slowly slipping into sleep...


	10. But Your Brother's in The Other Room!

{I think this is just a way of doubly irritating Martha, but I like the concept... ;) }

Sherlock's phone announced a text to the room, unnecessarily noisily, he reflected.

He almost buried his face in his hands. Unfortunately, Irene had not just changed her ringtone. Oh, no. She had also adjusted Moriarty's. Every time Sherlock received a text from the criminal, a loud crack sounded; the sound of a riding crop on flesh.

Face flushing slightly, he scrambled for the device, before snatching it out of the perplexed hands of Gavin, no, Graham, Lestrade. Mycroft sat opposite his younger brother, smirking away. Although his posture was, as always, ramrod straight, Sherlock immediately picked up on the tension - anxiety? - in his arms and unconsciously tapping fingers. Directed towards him? No. Not him. Lestrade...?

Sherlock followed the elder Holmes's gaze to the detective inspector who was staring nonchalantly at the long cold tea in his cup. Was that a trace of a smile on his face? Surely not. Sherlock decided to ignore the telltale signs; relaxed breathing, crinkles by his eyes and the twitch of his lips.

*Thwack!* Sherlock grimaced. "I just have to... Collect something." He rushed off in the direction of his bedroom. Left alone, finally, Lestrade raised his eyes from the teacup to offer Mycroft a coy smile. "Hello, handsome..."

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Sherlock slammed the door behind him. Breathing out in relief, he allowed his heart rate to return to normal. He immediately jumped again as a pair of expensively clad arms snaked around his waist, pulling him into a slim, smaller body.

"Darling..." The Irish lilt was crisp with irritation. "You didn't reply to my text..." Sherlock turned to face the criminal mastermind. His scowl softened as he took in his nemesis' slight pout.

"Mycroft's in there..." He hissed. Jim grinned. "Well, that's half the fun..." Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. Unfortunately, before he could voice his enquiry, he was shoved back onto the bed, arms windmilling, legs flailing. "Jim!" He yelped. "Shh, honey, remember Iceman's in the other room..." Moriarty purred, leaning down to place a kiss to his lips. Sherlock immediately forgot about Mycroft. He was lost...

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Lestrade didn't care that Sherlock would be back any minute. He had crawled into Mycroft's lap, fingers toying with the silk tie around the elder Holmes's throat. Mycroft swallowed hard. Lestrade grinned. They heard Sherlock make a peculiar squeaking noise from his room.

"Adler?" Mycroft enquired. The detective inspector shrugged. "Do you think I care?" Mycroft's eyebrows jumped about a foot. "Oh. Oh!" He realised. He gazed warily up at the silver haired officer. Lestrade threw him a wicked smile. "Ah, uh, Gavin?" "It's Greg!" Lestrade insisted, frowning. "Yes, well, I don't think that this is a good- mmph!"

Lestrade wound the other man's arms around his waist none too gently, crushing their lips together."But my brother's next door..." Mycroft protested weakly. "Shut up," he whispered, smiling into the kiss.

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Moriarty suddenly found himself sprawled on his back, with an extremely eager consulting detective straddling him. He raised his eyebrows. "You've got brave, Virgin..." He commented breathlessly.

Pupils dilating; flooding his eyes with onyx, Sherlock smirked, violinist's fingers fumbling with the buttons of his Westwood suit. "Ah, we both know that's not quite true..." The detective replied, slyly. Moriarty grinned. "Sherley! You naughty thing!" Sherlock yanked the criminal's arms out of his sleeves, tugging the tucked shirt out of his trousers. "Sherlock!" Jim cried, alarmed. "Yes, James?" Sherlock was too busy attacking the buttons of his shirt. "But your brother's next door!"

v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v

Suddenly, Mycroft found himself in a very awkward situation indeed... {Sorry, couldn't resist the cliché...} He detached his lips from Lestrade's neck, looking up to see a very started looking John Watson. John was frozen in the doorway, shopping bags dropped, contents spilling over the floor. Behind him was Mrs Hudson. The landlady was clapping her hands together in glee, giggling like a schoolgirl.

Mycroft slowly released Lestrade, adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair. The detective inspector reluctantly got off the elder Holmes's lap, retreating to the sofa. It looked like Mrs Hudson was about to burst. John's mouth hung slack and his eyes bulged slightly. The two men pointedly refused to look at each other, Mycroft glaring at Sherlock's closed bedroom door, Lestrade at the spilled groceries. It took about a minute before John was able to talk. "I-I-I'm sorry, but WHAT?!" His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Sherlock took that as a perfect opportunity to shove Moriarty up against the door, causing him to fall backwards through it and into the room. "Hey, mind Aeryn-Finn, Sherley!" The criminal genius protested, clasping his belly. If John had been upset before, now he was livid. "SHERLOCK, YOU IDIOT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT PSYCHOPATH? AND IS HE... Oh, God... Sherlock..." John's eyes were dinner plates as he stared in horror and wonder at the miracle of "science" (technically leprechaun magic) before him.

James Moriarty, spread eagled on the floor, arms around the evidence of his pregnancy. Sherlock Holmes shuffling off him awkwardly, as if trying not to draw anymore attention. It wasn't working well. Mrs Hudson ran in, barely able to contain herself. "Oh, Sherlock!" She trilled. "How lovely for you; he's a keeper! But what about John?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John is heterosexual. He repeatedly reminds you of this aspect of his life whenever you tease him about it." The landlady pouted."Ohhh, Sherlock... Give him time. He's probably just nervous." John ran out, terrified. Pause. "See?" Mrs Hudson giggled uneasily. "He's juuuust anxious... He'll come round, I'm sure..."

{Heh heh, that was fun to write... Review, my potatoes...}


	11. A Confusing Confession

{Part 3!}

Upon hearing footsteps on the landing, Sherlock looked up from his ever growing amoebae. He didn't turn around. He wouldn't let anyone live with the knowledge, but truth be told, he was anxious.

Who would believe that the great consulting detective was shy?

"Look. I need to explain my emotional situation to you. This is not my best suit. Please be patient with me... dear. I do believe that there is something wrong with me. Whenever you're around, my heart races. It's not just the murders. I think that I... There is a possibility that I... I might have feelings... I have feelings of a romantic kind for... For you, perhaps... I am quite new to this whole love thing... Will you give me a chance, my dear J-" Sherlock turned around abruptly at the sound of breaking china.

John stood on the landing, mouth wide open in disbelief. Sherlock's ivory features flushed scarlet. "No, not you!" He all but shrieked. "I thought you were... Someone else!" "Oh, Sherley!" A heavily pregnant Jim Moriarty dropped from the ceiling (who knew what he was doing up there... Ehehehehe...) Sherlock's already pink cheeks bloomed like summer roses(?). Moriarty beamed. "James..." Sherlock muttered, face burning. Moriarty threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, kissing him passionately. John watched in horror. He rubbed his neck awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to the situation. He decided to busy himself with tea, bustling about clanking teacups noisily.

When he came back in, Sherlock was still bright red, though the two consultants had separated. There was something shiny around his neck... John sighed. "Sherlock, what the hell is that?" The detective glared at him, stowing the silver chain beneath his shirt. Moriarty smirked gleefully. "Oh, important news!" He said, seriously. He placed a hand to his swollen belly gingerly. "Something's different... Aeryn-Finn has been growing, fast. The symptoms and processes are far too advanced for four months. If I didn't know how developed the pregnancy was, I'd say seven or eight months..." John was interested now, although he found the way Moriarty referred to the baby as "Aeryn-Finn", as though the master criminal hadn't quite decided, supremely annoying.

"Biological catalyst." Sherlock remarked coolly. John reluctantly agreed to examine the "patient".

It was true; Moriarty appeared closer to eight months than the four he'd spent pregnant. John sat back up. "Moriarty-" "Jim." The criminal insisted. "Jim, then. Try swimming, rather than running. You're heavily pregnant, developed at around eight months. You could give birth at any time, don't overexert yourself, take a break from planning murders, or whatever it is you do all day." John sighed reluctantly, running his hands through his greying hair. "And I suppose..." He gulped nervously. "Stay here until you give birth. You'll be safe here. Just... Don't explode any more tables... Or anything else..."

Jim smirked. "Of course not."

Pause.

"And what does Sherlock have around his neck?"

Both consultants blushed. "Oh, would you look at the time?" Sherlock laughed nervously.

"I have to go and... Um... Shower..." Moriarty said unsubtly. "Yes! So do I!" Sherlock leaped up from the table, dragging Moriarty with him.

John rolled his eyes. He would solve this mystery... Sherlock wasn't the only one with half a brain...

{Review! By the way, thank you very much, Vidgealz C Valvatore, your reviews make me ridiculously happy! I will correct that spelling mistake as soon as I find it, hehe!}


	12. It's A Girl

{I am updating so quickly... Eheheh...}

Sherlock looked in terror at the thing in his arms.

"It's a... Girl..." He croaked (NO! He's NOT a frog...)

John beamed.

"Oh, that's brilliant! You'll finally be able to start understanding women!"

Sherlock went three shades paler than his usual ivory.

He glared at the sleeping child.

"Can't you look after it?"

"Sherlock!" John cried.

Sherlock pouted.

"What?"

"'It' is a she. She is your daughter. What did you call her? Erin?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Aeryn. Air-WREN. Aeryn Holmes-Moriarty."

John grinned.

"She's lovely... Can I hold her?"

Sherlock's lip twitched.

"If you insist..."

He reluctantly handed the infant over.

John practically cooed with delight.

"Ooh! You are gorgeous, aren't you..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Thank you, John."

"Oh, shut up. I was talking to Aeryn."

John gleefully cuddled the sleeping baby, Sherlock secretly jealous.

"I think that's enough now."

He reached his arms out to reclaim his tiny daughter.

John held on stubbornly.

Sherlock scowled.

They both turned as the detective's bedroom door opened.

Moriarty leaned on the door, smirking.

"Fighting over my daughter, I see?"

Sherlock half smiled, it was odd seeing his archnemesis without the baby bump he had grown accustomed to.

The criminal winked, pulling a long silver chain out of his pocket.

"Did you keep it?"

The consulting detective glared.

He yanked his own necklace out of his shirt. _In love with a consulting criminal_, the silver half-heart read in teasing cursive.

"You actually wore it?!"

Moriarty's face showed genuine surprise.

"How could I refuse a pregnant psychopath?" Sherlock replied dryly.

"Yes, but you could have put it in your pocket or something..."

John was amused when Sherlock gave up arguing and kissed his "babymama", as Anderson kept calling the criminal - the only reason he was still alive was that at the time, Jim had been re-wiring a bomb, and when he was working, nothing, especially not the gratingly stupid voice of Anderson, could pull him away.

Moriarty reached for Aeryn, John handed her over immediately, grinning at Sherlock's disbelief.

"You let James hold her and not me?"

Just then, the baby woke up, making a tiny gurgling sound.

Sherlock's scowl vanished, to be replaced with a look of - pride? John only saw that look when he had solved a particularly exciting murder...

Moriarty smiled genuinely, stroking the wrinkled little face, framed by dark brown baby fluff.

Aeryn blinked wide blue eyes, unfocused but unclouded, bright with intelligence. "She's gonna be our little genius, Sherley..." The criminal mastermind ran his index finger gingerly over the pale cheeks, blotchy with previously shed tears.

Sherlock bit his lip, desperately trying to contain a grin.

In the end he gave up.

Who could resist a baby genius' giggle?

Certainly not the great Sherlock Holmes...

After all, Aeryn was a force to be reckoned with.

Her name alone would strike fear into many hearts.

She would suffer, too, unfortunately. Alone, most likely.

All Sherlock could do now was to bring her up 221B style, the best childhood he could provide.

He only hoped that when she was older, she'd find her own match.

Alone protects you, of course. But thinking about it honestly, Sherlock knew he would prefer her to find her own "soulmate" - John's term, certainly not his...

{To my favourite reviewer (no one else reviews anyway, haha), it is always a pleasure to write when I know it makes at least one person happy... And I _will_ track down that spelling mistake...}


	13. Sleepless Nights

{I really like the idea of the consultants knowing a load of logical facts and being utterly clueless about females... Thanks to Vidgealz C Valvatore for making this chapter possible... More coming, obviously!}

Sherlock was seriously considering borrowing some of Mrs Hudson's "herbal relaxant".

It was 3:45 am.

That wouldn't have been a problem normally for the insomniac detective, if not for the baby that had been screaming for the last five hours.

He pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes as best he could with his shoulder as he exasperatedly half rocked, half shook his shrieking daughter.

This was not working.

Not in the slightest.

He thought about calling for John, before remembering that he had made an unwise decision to reject his blogger's help. John had stormed off in a huff, so Sherlock supposed that it was not done to call your friend an "ordinary idiot who couldn't even dress himself, let alone a baby". The sweaters weren't that bad, really... Okay, yes they were. They were awful.

Now was not the time to be sulking about John's despicable behaviour!

Sherlock began to form a strategic list of things that could be upsetting Aeryn... This was difficult. He didn't actually remember how it was to be a baby, so he decided just to add things that made him uncomfortable to the list.

1. Boredom.

Was Aeryn, the three week old baby, bored? She was a genius, after all... He tried jiggling the coloured lights she liked in front of her face... Her dark blue eyes immediately shot towards the colours, though she carried on crying.

2. Lack of a case.

No... He didn't think that was it, though he would, of course, have to bring her along, one of these days...

3. Mycroft.

Sherlock stiffened.

He lifted his head up and took a long sniff of the air. The flat appeared clear... He could not detect the tell tale smell of smugness and leaf mulch...

Oh, damn, he was Uncle Mycroft to Aeryn, wasn't he? Urgh, god...

4. Enthusiasm from fans.

He looked quickly out of the window. No, nothing. Just a hobo or two, and people milling about.

5. Anderson.

Definitely not. The room's stupidity level had been abnormally low since Aeryn's birth, he would obviously have noticed such a dramatic change.

6. A naked Adler.

Sherlock immediately shielded his daughter's eyes. No one wanted to see that, especially not his little girl...

7. Public displays of affection.

Well, there was one way to test that... Sherlock peered at the discomfort on his daughter's face. He studied the change before and after he kissed her forehead. No change. She was indifferent.

8. Mrs Hudson fangirling.

"Mrs Hudson? I require your services for a minute."

Oh, yes... It was 4 am...

9. Molly Hooper.

This was getting slightly ridiculous.

10. He hated being tickled.

Only Moriarty knew of this fact, of course. The circumstances in which this information was discovered were not suitable for a three week old, he mused.

He felt his cheeks burning.

11. An unsolved mystery.

Well, that was what this was, wasn't it?

The detective sighed, torn between waking up Moriarty and attempting to further solve this case. After a further hour of pacing and Aeryn screaming, he decided just to wake up his lover. He tied the baby to his chest with his scarf, similar to the way he'd seen mothers in the city do, pushing open the door not quite gently. To his annoyance, the consulting criminal was sitting up on his side of the bed, smirking roguishly. "Let me guess, darling. You rocked her?" Sherlock looked like he had been force fed 17.85 lemons.

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" He sulked. Moriarty simply smiled sweetly at him. "Let me have her..." He held out his arms expectantly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and carefully dumped Aeryn into his lover's waiting arms. To his surprise, Aeryn immediately stopped crying, snuggling into Moriarty's bare chest. "James! Do you have to run around naked all the time?" He complained, a blush beginning to spread over his face.

"I do not 'run around' naked! Aeryn likes the body heat. Plus, I know you like it, too..."

He winked as the last sentence was delivered. Sherlock groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "James... Stop it..."

In an effort to end his oh so very human embarrassment, Sherlock scowled down at the baby in Moriarty's arms.

To his utter shock, he saw that she was fast asleep.

"How did you do that?!" He demanded. "Do what?" Moriarty giggled coyly. "You know what! Aeryn!" The criminal looked down in mock surprise at the sleeping child in his arms. "Oh my word, I have no idea!" He gasped in mock horror. "Perhaps it's just because she likes me more." "You?" Sherlock retorted. "Oh, thanks very much. Of course she likes me better, Mr Grumpypants." Moriarty pouted. "Does not." "Does too." "Does not." "Does too!" Moriarty straighted up, gingerly plonking the sleeping baby into the cot John had (enthusiastically, yuck) built. "We will settle this fight like men!" He cried, yanking at the scarf still around Sherlock's waist, toppling him into the bed. Sherlock struggled for a grip on something - anything - that would enable him to gain the upper hand.

They decided to spend the rest of the morning "fighting" - though there was an awful lot of giggling involved that John decided to ignore when he finally returned at eight.


	14. The Grand Prize (1)

{I DON'T GET IT. Someone please explain Sherlolly to me. I don't ship it and never will, but Martha's always going on about it and now my friend Bea is as well... I don't understand... Mehhhhhhhhhhh...}

"Let the battle commence!" John waved the two flags to signal the start of the competition.

The contest was as follows: Who was the best parent?

Sherlock or Mycroft?

In the kitchen, Moriarty and Lestrade watched in amusement, both nursing cups of hot tea. They had put aside their differences for their children*, and were rapidly growing friendlier. They could talk about their boyfriends; how tiring living with a Holmes can be and so on, but also their common interest in literature.

Unfortunately, where Moriarty preferred Fantasy and Romance, Lestrade favoured Horror and Crime, but it was better than the Holmes brothers, bound completely by nonfiction...

Aeryn was just over a month now, getting bigger all the time. She had just finished fighting her way through a particularly nasty cold, though she had recovered quickly - somehow the entire stock of baby Calpol had mysteriously disappeared from the local pharmacy. They weren't quite sure how she'd done it, but she seemed to have a lot more common sense than them about what she needed, so they were happy to leave a false trail the lead the police off.

*back to the competition*

The first obstacle was banana mashing. The contestants had to mash three bananas as quickly as possible with only a blunt knife... When Sherlock incredulously asked what banana mashing had to do with parenting, John was tempted to kick him out of the competition. However, there was no way he'd improve if he couldn't compete, so the doctor reluctantly carried on...

Amazingly, Sherlock was actually quite good at banana mashing. Mycroft just glared at his two unmashed fruits, pulping them with fury. From his perfectly puréed bowl of bananas, Sherlock smirked, loftily imitating his brother. "Ah, you see, brother mine, the trick is to mash them all at once, not individually." Mycroft almost broke the bowl smashing up his bananas.

"Well... I think Sherlock won that one..." John commented dubiously. "BOOOOOOO!" Lestrade and Moriarty yelled from the kitchen... "James! You're supposed to be on my side!" The detective all but wailed. "Okay, okay! Time for part two! Baby shopping!" He was met with twin expressions of confusion and disgust. "We already have children, why would we need to buy more?" Protested Mycroft. Sherlock nodded vigorously. John rolled his eyes. For such high class intellectuals, they could be such idiots... "I think that's illegal anyway..." Sherlock's face immediately brightened up. "What I meant was, shopping for your children. You can bring Greg and Jim along, too." Back came the disgust...

Luckily, it only took a few threats from Moriarty - "No sex", " It'll mean I'm a better parent" and, "Mycroft will win if you don't" seemed to work well - to persuade Sherlock that he should take part.

*in Mothercare - why not...*

"Look at this one, Sherley! It's so cute!" Sherlock put down the navy blue tiny scarf he had been examining and strode over to Moriarty. "Daddy loves me the best", he read aloud, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Beside him, Jim was making the puppy eyes. Sherlock rolled his own. "Go on, then." He muttered. His lover did a little dance of celebration, before standing on tiptoes to peck his cheek.

A shattered looking woman with three children hanging off her gave them a warm smile. Sherlock was immediately wary. "So who's the daddy?" She beamed at them. "We both are." They answered automatically, Jim returned the smile, Sherlock frowned. She looked a little flustered. "Oh. Oh, that's nice. What's the baby called, then?" Smiley Lady continued, just as friendly. "Aeryn... She's beautiful, just like my Sherlock..."

You could see the wheels turning in her brain... "Sherlock? As in, the great detective? Sherlock Holmes?" "Sherlock! Oh my god, I love you!" Another young mother jumped in excitedly. "Sherlock Holmes! You helped me track down my lost pigeon!" "Sherlock!" "Sherlock Holmes?" "Who's your boyfriend?" Sherlock glared at Moriarty accusingly. "Mobbed by fans? Great plan, dear." He received a smirk in response. "Don't worry, darling, I bought everything I wanted before you could tell me not to... Come along, Sherley... Say bye bye to the nice fans..." Before he knew it, Sherlock was being dragged out of Mothercare. It only took a few seconds for the women to realised that their prey was escaping... Soon, Sherlock and Jim were in a cab, watching the mothers chasing after them looking around to try and catch sight of a billowing coat and cheekbones... They weren't to know that the consultants had simply swapped coats...

Back at 221B, they still had five minutes before the elder Holmes and his partner were due to arrive. John was desperate to see the clothes, and had to console himself over the wait by singing to Aeryn. Sherlock hadn't known that John could sing, which irritated him. Moriarty tipped the shopping bag out over the shared bed, revealing the outfits he had chosen to his partner. "Seriously?" Sherlock growled. Before Moriarty could reply, Mrs Hudson burst in. "I hope you aren't being naughtyyy..." She trilled. "Your brother's here again, and that Lestrade fellow..." Moriarty smiled weakly, avoiding Sherlock's death glare.

"What?" He protested. "I'm sure you'll get extra points for feminism. And at least I only bought one in pink..."

*part two of the competition coming soon...*


End file.
